"My lord has a daughter."

He was on his feet in a second, setting the idea aside as trivial.

What was son or daughter to him beside his dearest dear?

"She?" he asked breathlessly.

"My lord had best come and see," replied the kind, sympathetic voice; he recognised it faintly, but it made no impression on him.

The small room was hot and close; full of smoke also from a useless fire hastily lit up. And Ma'asuma lay covered by endless quilts. But it was Ma'asuma herself who lay there peaceful as if already dead; but her face was alight with feeble smiles. Only for a moment, however; then the curly, goldy-brown head turned restlessly on the pillow.

"I am sorry--" she murmured, "I--I wanted it to be a son, but--but--"

the voice trailed away into weaker sobbing.

"Hush! silly one!" said Babar gently, his heart in his mouth as he noted her looks. "What G.o.d gives is best. If she is like thee she will be all I need."

A small trembling hand fluttered out to a corner of the coverlet.

"Like me. I know not. Babar! What wilt thou call her, when I am gone?"

The words cut him like a knife, because he knew they were true; there was something which told him that the dearest thing on earth to him was fast slipping from his grasp. Yet the simplicity of his nature kept him calm.

"I will give her her mother's name," he said quietly.

Ma'asuma sighed with content and was silent for a s.p.a.ce. Then after a while her voice, weaker than ever, rose again, a low, monotonous voice that told of ebbing strength.

"Babar! who will nurse my child? Give her not to strange women. Lo! I never loved strangers; nor dost thou, thou, dear heart. Foster-sister where art thou? Send the strangers away and the slaves, and come close. I want thee."

One wave of Babar's hand cleared the little room, and once more came that faint sigh of content.

"That is nice. Only thou, and I, and she, and little Ma'asuma--all the folk I love in the world. That is right." For a moment she seemed to sleep, and when she opened her eyes there were dreams in them.

"Set the window wide. I would see the sunset," she said in quite a strong voice and when the red light flooded into the little dark room she lay in it peacefully.

"Will it not mayhap hurt?" whispered the tall figure in white.

"She is past hurt," whispered Babar back. His heart was as a stone. He could not have wept, he could not even feel grief.

"Thy hand, my heart," came the voice feeble again, "and thine, sister--how warm they are and mine grow so cold--so cold. Yet that matters not. I am only--only the Kazi." The ghost of a flickering smile hovered over the lips that, in the monotonous Arabic drawl of the professional priest, began on the opening sentences of the Mahomedan wedding service.

The man and the woman standing instinct with Life, looked helplessly at each other and instinctively drew apart.

Ma'asuma's violet eyes seemed to strive with coming darkness. "Don't,"

she murmured. "It is not kind! Look you, I cannot see; and my hands are so weak. Be quick or I shall not hear. Say it quickly and then there will be peace, then I shall have given my lord a son--then we shall all be at rest. It is the last thing--"

There was a second of silence and then Babar's clasp on the hand he held beneath that small chill one tightened, and his voice rang clear.

"Before G.o.d I take this woman to be my wedded wife."

And swift on the words came a woman's voice, "Before G.o.d I take this man to be my husband, the father of our son."

A sigh of content seemed almost to end life, and there was silence for a s.p.a.ce. But it was broken by a pitiful, helpless murmur, "The ring! I have forgotten the ring."

"I have it already, sweetheart," came the woman's voice, soft, calm, soothing. So they stood, till the chill little hands grew more chill in the warm clasps that held them; finally one withdrew itself slowly, slowly, and Babar was left alone with Death and Love.

The tall white figure fell on its knees and wept softly; but Babar stood still, stern, calm. What use to kiss unconscious lips? What use to strain at broken cords?

"She hath found freedom," he said after a time. Then he turned to the kneeling figure. "Maham," he said quietly. "Thou wilt see to little Ma'asuma for me, wilt thou not?"

It was sunrise when they laid to rest Babar's first and in a way, his only love. The birds were singing in the garden he had made so beautiful. The roses that decked the grave were full of scent.

But Babar noticed none of these things, he moved about calm, self-controlled, conscious of but one thing, that he was glad he was not at Kabul where he would have had wailing women and ceremonial condolences. Here, in the open, among the flowers, all was peace. He need not even realise that his dearest-dear was dead.

But he had overrated his emotional strength, or rather he had underrated it as he always did. All the day long, as he went about as usual, his face haggard, his manner courteous and gentle, a storm was brewing within, and when sunset came again, bringing the sadness of a dead day with it, the tempest burst.

Maham, her eyes red with weeping, was seated in the dusk of the little room where Ma'asuma had died, with the dead woman's babe on her lap when she looked up to see a tall, swaying figure standing at the door.

A helpless, bewildered figure that stretched out bewildered hands to her.

"Maham! Maham!" it cried, "save me! Save me from myself."

She rose instantly, laid the sleeping infant on the bed, and went to him.

"Thou art tired," she said, as a mother might have said it. "Come hither and rest awhile, my lord. Sleep will bring peace."

CHAPTER VII

I am the dust beneath thy feet, my sweet; Thou art the cloud that sprinkleth rain amain.

Lo! as green tongues of gra.s.ses spring to bring Their thanks for moisture given to root and fruit, So, all my being blossometh and saith "Dear G.o.d be praised for Love of Thee and Me."

Maham had her work cut out for her. But she was a wise woman and from the first gauged Babar's volatile, kindly, affectionate nature to a nicety.

He had had a shock, and one with such fine-strung nerves as his required time for recovery. Therefore, with easy ability, she took the tiller ropes and steered his craft and hers through the troubled waters which instantly raged about him. She even, rather to their resentment, succeeded in pacifying Babar's step-grandmother and his paternal aunts as to her position (which she claimed at once) as Babar's wife. They had been betrothed for months, she told them; indeed for long years the intent to marry had been existent. So much so that they had her late husband Gharib-Beg's hearty a.s.sent to their union. She had come from Khorasan at Ma'asuma Begum's earnest wish, and the marriage had taken place when it did--this she left hazy--entirely to please her when she was ill and ailing. Doubtless the dear little thing had had a prescience of her own death. Such angels of Paradise often had. She, Maham, could never hope to hold the same place in the King's affection; still it was lucky things had happened so, or the Most-Clement might have gone out of his mind with grief, deprived as he was in the wilds of Adinapur of the consolations of all his womenkind. And the gracious ladies knew how dependent he had always been on them, as well as on his deceased mother--on whom be G.o.d's peace--and his unfortunate sister. Besides, she could be useful in bringing up the King's little daughter.

"If thou wilt give him a son 'twould be to more purpose," quoth outspoken Shah-Begum.

"G.o.d helping me, I will, madam," came the cool reply.

"She is well spoken," admitted the old lady grudgingly, after the interview was over.

"And of the inner circle. 'Deed! now that one comes to consider it,"

wept Babar's Yenkam, "more suited for the work than my fairy, who was ever too lightsome for such task. And, look you! there be no question of evil eye or such things. She loved my Ma'asuma as herself, and was ever good to the child. It is doubtless G.o.d's will."

"Yea! Yea! G.o.d's will," snivelled fat, silly Princess Astonishing Beauty; but little Ak-Begum's keen eyes were soft.

"There is more in it than mayhap we know," she said softly. "And she hath a good, clever face. So G.o.d send our kind Babar peace."

Good wishes were well enough doubtless, but Maham felt that action must be taken; and at once. My lord the King must not be allowed to lounge at home, eating his heart out; and to this purpose she sent for old Kasim and explained her views.